


Teach Me, Willem

by ellisle



Category: A Little Life - Hanya Yanagihara
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mention of Caleb Porter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellisle/pseuds/ellisle
Summary: A collection of my take on random moments from the book. How I view their conversation about Caleb would go, how maybe Willem would try tactics to distract Jude but it would be fruitless in the end. How in the end, Jude would feel utterly alone and hate himself for admitting it.
Relationships: Willem Ragnarsson/Jude St. Francis
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	Teach Me, Willem

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably so out of character and therefore just a self-indulgent piece. A process of some kind, of my own. This book was so much, too much. And of these extremes, was the love between Willem and Jude. And despite their end, there's this bittersweet realization that even though it hurt Jude to lose him, I'm so glad he had spent those Happy Years filled with him.
> 
> The descriptions of Jude's past are brief, but still, they hurt.

He wasn’t getting better. Because the more he relaxed on the familiar fabric of Harold and Julia’s sofa, as much as the second floor room smelled less and less like air freshener and more like Jude’s shampoo, all that settled in the silence was the thought of how much he didn’t belong. He felt the familiar stabbing pain, the one that resonated through his spine and stole the air from his lungs; he knew he could throw off the covers and see what haunted him was no longer there. Why couldn’t he sever these thoughts like they had severed his limbs. He’d give up his hidden safe, the vault deep within the confines of his own mind that he’s forgotten how to navigate. The map he burned, inch by inch, chanting to himself that with the ashes, so these memories would follow. But they never did. They faded, he once thought, until he’d woken up from his fever dream, the one when he was surrounded with hands too quick, too strong for him to fight against. The one where Brother Luke’s thinning hair was replaced with grey strands, his glasses morphing into something more familiar, the shapes of his eyes, his face, his voice--it was the fever dream where Harold had finally spared him by cutting the taut rope, cutting into the strands as his nails cut into his skin. _I know what you are now, Jude St. Francis; how dare you lie to me, to Julia, after all we’ve done for you. Given you nothing but the love you never deserved, a love never reserved for you._

-

It was cold water that brought him into a second reality, an escape from his first but only ever temporary, or was it the opposite. It was blurred vision, the warm glow of the floor lamp that revealed a silhouette he couldn’t recognize. Hands rushed to him and Jude cried out with his heart in his throat, choking on something and damning his lungs for failing him the way his legs always had. The hands never reached him and Jude’s body trembled in the way that left him feeling so vulnerable; time and time again, he’d been reminded of his weaknesses, his inabilities--Would things be different if he could still run? If he had the choice to run, could he have been freed of the scars that came when he lost that choice? Control. If he could feel the soft dirt of the forests, the hard pavement of his daily walks, if he looked different, would he _be_ different. Could he claim normalcy and aspire and dream. Then he feels hollow, for diluting this to his gait when he knew the very reasons were embedded far beneath the anatomy of his bones.

“Jude.” Willem’s voice was always so hushed in these moments of stillness. In the moments where Jude’s ears pounded with the rush of blood and the streams of words that poured out of him _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll be better I promise. I’ll try, I’ll try my best and I’ll try harder please, please forgive me, I’m sorry._ He felt the brush of fingers against his palms, and he froze further still. He shut his eyes, afraid despite knowing the motel’s sheets were never this soft, despite the soft light that he knew never existed in the basement’s windowless walls.

“Judy,” Willem cried, his voice broke into a sound that opened Jude’s eyes, the voice that brought him back to SoHo. The space beside him, Willem’s spot, no longer carrying his indentation nor his warmth. He hated not feeling the evidence of Willem in their bed, because what if it was all just a fantasy; a faraway place that would eventually lead him back to the motel bathroom, clutching the blood soaked towel over his arm and crying that Brother Luke’s embrace was not the warmth he found in Willem’s. Jude heard Willem cry, watching his head hang low, broad shoulders shaking like they did the week after Hemming had passed. 

He had sat beside him in Lispenard, matted carpet offering no comfort to his leg, but that was secondary to this moment, the moment where he could be something for his friend, not restricted by his physicality. This moment of when he could be a corner of comfort, to make up for the countless times Willem had been his. To comfort a loss that Jude would never completely understand. Willem clung to Jude, his small frame offering minimal support, he felt fingers grip the back of his sweater, and it took everything he had to not shove him away. _He feels your scars, he knows they’re there. He knows you’re damaged; you’re broken, dirty, and you’ll never be worthy._ “How could he leave me, Jude, why did he leave me?” Willem cried, interrupting his thoughts for a glorious moment. Jude rubbed his back, feeling the tremors against his palm, not knowing what to say. So he held tight, comforted by his small delusion that he could be a friend to those he loved. That despite his secrets, which he may never speak again, he could still be what Willem needed him to be.

“Come back to me Judy, please,” that voice calls him back, makes him want to come back, to hear more of what there is to be said. Jude lowers his hand, gripping the hand that holds his face so tenderly, as if he’s something, someone, to be treasured. _It’s too late, Willem. Why are you still here, why won’t you leave_ . But this is a lie, because he knows somewhere closer to the surface of what remains of him, is the desperate plea for these hands to never stray beyond his reach. And Willem looks up at him, the creases around his eyes, the dark shade that seems to follow him in these times of the night; for a second, Jude wishes he could melt into the sheets. Into the mattress and below, to the ground level, to the underground, beneath the soil and into the core of the earth that would obliterate his very existence so he wouldn’t have to _be this_ to Willem.

“Come back to me Jude,” Willem whispers against his neck, warm arms that hold him and the scent of sandalwood that envelops him. It rids him of the cold sensation of damp skin he feels ghosting against him, and mutes the rhythmic sounds, drowns the stench of latex and stale coffee ever lingering on Brother Luke’s breath. His eyes refocus, to the bookshelf filled with his and Willem’s favorites, mixed together on the shelves and on stacks of their floor. The scripts scattered across Willem’s desk, the post-it note he left that morning about picking up groceries. The drawings, the sketches, the photos of them and Malcolm and JB. He feels Willem’s lips move against his neck, whispering words that are too soft for him to hear. He wishes he could hear them but he can’t, so instead he tries to relax into this warm embrace, he has again reminded himself to trust. But the void inside him takes form, and he hates himself again, for the way the faces he can’t remember rear the heads, invading this moment, this safehouse; the security that Willem so openly offered and gave. He brings his hand to feel the strands of Willem’s hair brush against his fingertips, softer than anything, finding solace in the raised bump of the scar that stayed from junior year in college. “I’m sorry, Willem, so sorry,” he whispered. Again. Again. He was sorry. When could he stop. Would he ever stop?

-

They sat on the sofa, eyes unseeing, food cold and abandoned on the dining table. Jude’s hand and his own, just inches away from each other, but still Willem felt this wall. This was a new wall, one he hadn’t anticipated. But the day Jude gave him the page to the obituary, the night he told him about Caleb Porter, Willem was scared. Not of anyone but himself. Of how much he wished he could have given the bastard the most agonizing death. Every physical impact he dealt, Willem knew, would carry the weight of pure hatred, towards every demon Jude still carried so heavily in his head. _How dare he do this to you, Jude. How dare he. And you Jude, how dare you let his words hold fast to you, why do you favor his lies over the truths of the people who love you._ And then he hates himself, because he knows why, and it tears him apart from the inside because he is lost on this path he thought was so simple. 

The high pitch ringing in his ears that kept drowning out Jude’s voice, the way his own eyes wandered around this space that was theirs, had Caleb invaded these corners of Jude’s and Willem’s sanctuary? Fuck. Fuck, Willem chanted in his head. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He needed to lie down. So they go to their bed, Willem lying on his back and Jude perched on the edge of his side. He knew Jude was keeping him from details, and he was scared, truly. Scared of knowing and never knowing.

Jude pressed his hand against Willem’s arm, hesitant and unsure, but trying. Jude was always trying and Willem was frustrated, angry at himself for trying to push Jude a little further because he felt like he could do it if he just--

He turned to face Jude, vision blurring from the tears that came so easy when it came to Jude. Jude, the anchor, the old oak tree that always seemed so much older and wiser than the rest of them. Jude, who refused to be supported and consoled and yet was so quick to be the soothing voice to erase the insecurities of his own mind. _You can do it Willem, of course you can. They’d be crazy not to have you, Kit told me and I believe him. It’s like you’re a completely different person on stage, Willem, like you’re in some other world, some other dimension where I can’t--_ And he held Jude’s hand in the calm of his dressing room, held it so tight that he was almost tying himself to Jude, so afraid of losing him, of being in an absence of him: “I’m not going anywhere, Jude.”

Cold fingers brushed against his cheeks, Willem refocused back into the present, back to where Jude was wiping away his tears for him, whispering the apologies, the pleas for forgiveness. He took his time, motions slow and steady, and watched as Jude watched him. Watched as he flinched when he got closer, but never pulled away. Willem wrapped his hand around Jude’s, feeling the cold of his and the heat of his own, until they blended into a warmth that was comfortable. He moved closer to his edge of the bed, though there was room for two, and he pulled their hands in the space between them, “Can you lay with me, can we sleep just like this?” Jude swallowed hard, the thin skin of his neck taut as he did. There were silent beats, filled with the white noise of their neighborhood from the open windows. 

“Are you going to leave, Willem?” Jude breathes, like he knows the answer, like he’s waiting for the inevitable to drown him, where he’ll succumb, truly out of Willem’s reach. So Willem gets up, pulling his cardigan from Jude off the bedpost. He can see Jude protest but Willem pulls Jude’s hand along, putting in his free arm then the other as he switches the hands holding Jude’s. At this he hears the soft sound of what is reminiscent of Jude’s laugh, the one he lets out when he’s indulging him, asking Jude to humor him in these moments that pass them by. And with it he tells himself, selfishly, _I'll find you Jude, I'll find you damn it, I will. Just please, come back to me._ He slowly gets off the bed, pulling Jude into the space he occupied. He sits against the wall, their hands hanging loosely between them. Jude lays on his pillow and Willem watches, silently, as he takes in the warmth he knows is still there. “I know you’re waiting for me to leave you,” Willem sighs, but he raises his head, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips because this he knows without a doubt: “But you’re stuck with me, Judy.” Jude breathes in, relaxing just a bit and for that Willem is grateful. And Jude allows this moment to flood his mind. He opens his eyes, exhaustion clear in his face and in the way he stares so longingly at Willem, the flicker of doubt that he now recognizes if he looks hard enough. Willem would try harder, for Jude, he would do that and so much more. He squeezes Jude’s hand, and Jude squeezes back. 

“I’m sleepy, Willem,” Jude’s voice is dry, cracking under some emotion, caused by something, someone--what, who, Willem wishes he knew. But he doesn’t, and he used to be satisfied with the unknowing. “Then sleep Jude, I’m here now and always gonna be.” He knows Jude doesn’t like these promises, but they’re his truth. Things are different now; Andy asked if he was ready to see this to the end and Willem knows nothing’s changed. He still loves his best friend, his comrade; he loves Jude St. Francis, and for every flaw, every scar that would make his love drift, he would wait, he would call, he would reach and grab onto the hand that anchors his heart. “I love you, Jude,” he confesses in the night, Jude fast asleep. He rubs his thumb over the back of his hand, as he does, and he hopes Jude hears him in his dreams. “And if nothing else, believe me when I say it was never and never will be your fault, there is nothing for me to forgive Jude, nothing was ever your fault,” Willem begs, hoping it will stay with Jude, like a mantra, a spell, to keep him and protect him.

-

The soft hand against his hair startles him, and he sees the wide expanse of the windows to remind himself he’s come to Harold and Julia’s for the weekend. Willem’s hands are raised, pulled back to give Jude space to sit up. But Jude stares back up at him, an unflattering angle and yet he was still so beautiful, when would Jude look at Willem and be able to stop the overwhelming sensation of feeling too much at once and still wanting more. “It felt nice,” Jude whispers, barely audible to his own ears but he sees Willem smiling, and he knows he’s heard him, because his warm hands are back in his hair, brushing them back, framing his face. Jude feels that sense of comfort, security, reintroduced and remolded by the very hands that brought him back to this place. The hands that always brought him back.

He feels the bed shift and Willem pulls the covers over both of them, pulling Jude closer until they can hear each other’s breaths, feeling each other’s gaze, wandering and wandering until they meet. Jude was alive, and what was slowly becoming less rare, was Jude’s own gladness in that. He had moments of indulgence, moments of happiness he would take and take for as long as he was granted. This closeness with Willem, being held and knowing he was safe. He would take and take these moments for as long as Willem allowed him, which Jude had yet to see limits to. Minus the bathroom breaks. _Jude, I’m so sorry but I gotta pee. ___

____

“You look happy, Judy,” he teased, hiding the relief but only just barely. Jude closed his eyes, the soft skin of Willem’s arm pressed against his cheek, “I’m happy, Willem. So happy,” he whispers, “but I know this will fade, I can’t ever seem to keep things right long enough.” And to that Willem simply smothered him in his embrace, Jude’s face smushed into his chest, “There is no long enough, Jude. We’ll focus on right now, we’ll focus on this, on us. You’re happy Jude, you’re allowed to hold tight to that. You’re allowed to want more, Jude, I want you to always want more.” Jude felt the nausea in his stomach, the prickling on his arms, but in this moment with Willem, so large and blanketing him from the world and what he knew of it, he bites his tongue and returns the embrace. “I can’t want more than this, Willem, I don’t think I know how,” he whispers. Jude holds tight; tight as if to will away the voices that echo inside of him, _You’re dirty, so disgusting; your filthy arms and diseased body will infect him, you’ll consume him until there’s nothing left and it’ll be no one’s fault but yours. You're not a child anymore, you're not blameless_. But the voices fade away when Willem holds him tighter. They sometimes stay, but today they fade, and for that Jude lets his body mold into the shape that holds him. He is lulled by Willem’s voice, the voice that whispers above voices that haunt him: “We’ll figure it out, we’ll figure it out. You can want more Jude, you gotta want more. Don’t fade from me, Jude St. Francis, don’t you dare fade from me.” And Jude responds with the strongest grip his arms can manage, which makes Willem pause in his words, hushed whispers enveloping him into something sweeter than his dreams.

____

-

____

Jude is surrounded by him. In the home that was once their sanctuary, his safe haven. It still is. He finds Willem in every inch of their house. In the plant he once brought home from the market, telling Jude he needed to water it multiple times a day, that he did not want to see a dead plant when he got back from his shoot in Paris. Jude recognized it for what it was though. Something to distract him, something to remind him of Willem when he was so far and Jude needed him close. It would prove to not be enough. Because his legs still tormented his body, his mind. It flooded his senses when he slept, and behind closed eyes he would be forced to take in the fluorescent lights of the motel room, the flickering light of the bathroom that made his skin appear so artificial. He would fight to stay in this room, because what waited for him outside was worse than the blades that offered him release and control. For in this moment, his body was his and no one could change this. Even in frame of mind, he clung to a false sense of hope. That through this door, help would come. Through this door, Harold would find him, would cradle him in his arms and Julia would whisper to him the things mothers whispered to their children. In these dreams, these whispers would only ever be murmurs, because despite the decades, Jude is still unsure what mothers were supposed to say. 

____

Sometimes he would cry for Brother Luke and in those moments, he would wake up drenched by the fever and paralysis that gripped him so tightly on nights without Willem. And immediately he would run, he would unclip the blade fastened on the outer wall of their building, inches below their window. He would sanitize the blade and position himself against the sink, facing the door, ready to throw the blade should someone magically appear. But he would feel the release of his skin, liberating him from the creatures that so wanted this from him. Satiated if only for this night, and with it, he would find a peaceful calm. A few more to ensure this serenity would last, and he would methodically clean these wounds, which would scar and break Willem’s heart. And with it would the guilt and shame once more consume him. _Why Jude, why! Why can’t you see this is hurting me!_ But how could he make Willem understand--that this, these scars, were in his control. These scars were ones he had made. They were his. On his body, which he reminded himself, was his. 

____

He filled a cup from the sink, arms pulsing beneath the bandages, and he waters the plant. Strokes its leaves and marvels for a moment, at the smooth complexion of it. And again, he is reminded of how his arms are anything but. Willem had called him New Zealand but Jude held fast to the belief that he was and always will be damaged. Because as much as Harold cried, as much as Julia begged, as much as Andy pleaded and Willem stayed, there was a voice that screamed within him: _Lies._

____

Jude sat by the plant, no longer green and full of life, simply a brittle gold, dead yet still in form. He wondered how something so lifeless could still be so beautiful. He wondered if Willem knew he would fail at this simple task. Would he be disappointed that he’d failed to nurture such a simple plant. That he’d instead made new scars to combat the nights without him--no, these scars were not Willem’s fault. _Your fault, your fault._ He was broken, he insisted to the empty room. Jude sobbed then, crawling to their shared closet and taking the plaid shirt that barely held traces of Willem’s cologne and the scent that came from being lived in by the man. He wrapped it around his shoulders, a blanket across his still-thin frame, and he prayed. He prayed like he did when he was still so young, when he believed that his mother was looking. Despite the Brothers' claims, Jude would pray every night, hoping to earn favor, hoping to be seen and heard so that his once-lost family would find him again.

____

He wonders if those prayers were blasphemous. Was that why he was being punished; being reminded of the life that filled this space, the dinners, the parties, the movie nights with friends to look back on the years their bonds had withstood. Being reminded of all the good that was still with him; through Harold, Julia, Richard, JB. But also of the bitter reality that all the good was no longer the same without Willem. Willem. Willem. Willem. Who was he without Willem. 

____

-

____

When Jude wakes, he’s in his room in Cambridge, snow falling silently on the other side of the window pane. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he doesn’t remember how he got here. But something inside him always knows this is a place without him. He hears the ticking of the wristwatch Harold gifted him, time was still passing, he was still alive. And he hated every second of this. This life, this room; the reminder of all the good that had found him, and how something so good could have been so easily taken from him. He wanted nothing; not to be alive, not to be in this room, in this bed that had always been big enough for both of them. He reaches out his arm, feeling the coldness of the empty space, void of contact and of the scent that always lingered just long enough. Just long enough to distract Jude, until Willem walked out of the bathroom, freshly washed, hair still dripping and clothes slightly damp from haphazardly drying off. He’d catch a cold especially in this winter, Jude thought, eyes unseeing in the direction of the unlit bathroom. The door set ajar, empty. In hearing Willem, Jude would open his eyes, seeing him with that cheeky smile he always wore with such a charismatic ease. “I was gone for like 10 minutes,” his tone playful as he saw Jude wrapped around his pillow, on his side of the bed. Jude would be embarrassed then, caught and spotlight shining on him in this unmasked desire of wanting Willem beside him. And Willem would fill that space so easily, his laugh was something otherworldly, it brought him back from wherever his mind had wandered off to. He was wrapping him up in his arms and steadying his dizzying mind with the solid weight of his presence, and with him, Jude stayed.

____

So he deludes himself, that if he was quiet enough, he would hear the droplets of the shower in the bathroom. He would hear the melodies Jude taught him, a melody that sounded different in Willem’s voice. _Your voice is amazing Jude, I love hearing you sing. Can you play that piece for me Jude, the one you played last Saturday. Teach me, Jude, I swear I’ve been practicing and I think I’m getting better! Judy, can I hold your hand? I wanna kiss you so bad, Jude. We don’t have to do anything Jude, I just wanna be close to you, that’s all I want with you, to be close. Don’t leave me Jude, don’t you dare fucking leave, stay with me, please stay! You’re like mountain peaks, canyons, river streams; diffe_ _rent sceneries without a map, but you’re beautiful all the same, Jude St. Francis. You may not believe it, but know that I do, you’re beautiful. I love you Jude, so much._

____

He leaves earlier than planned and he sees the concern in Harold's face, in Julia's. But he needs to be alone, wants to be alone. He puts his hand on Harold's arm, hoping it's enough, knowing Harold will always say he is more than enough. That was what they all said. What was it they saw that was so elusive to Jude's own perception. Why were they all so sure of him when every passing moment was a crack in this crumbling resolve. He drives back home, to their home. He unlocks the door, is unbothered by the shoes he leaves on until he hits the bed, so painfully spacious for him alone.

____

Jude cries and the breaths he takes are shallow, his choked coughs are muzzled by his face buried in his pillow. He blindly grabs for Willem’s, hoping somehow, despite the year that’s passed, that somehow this fabric had kept his scent, his indentations, his warmth. But it doesn’t, and he hates that a space can be so full of someone he loves and yet be in utter absence of him. Why hadn't he indulged Willem with that piece, why had his mind so restricted him from the embraces, the kisses, the sweet words that always were something and so much more. He wished for one last day with him, for one last day to hold him, to sear his very being into the spaces of his mind until he is filled with nothing but Willem. The love for him, the love he wished he could have been capable of giving him. _Don’t say that Jude, you’re more than enough, you are so much more._ But he bites back at the voice now only reminiscent of the voice that is already starting to fade. _You spoke lies Willem, you lied to me. You’re slipping from me and I don’t know how to stop this. Teach me, Willem. Teach me how to keep you close._

____

He hates this reality of precious memories fading while the past still feeds on his sanity. He hates himself, for focusing on a loss when so many of the people who still loved him were just outside this door. Still, he holds onto this violent storm that pulses through his veins; he hates his life, for shifting to fit the shape of Willem Ragnarsson. He loves Willem, for loving him so, for the ease he introduced and for showing him how normalcy could fill him so beyond what he’d imagined. And he hates him for showing him how good this damned life could be with him, without ever preparing him for the days he would have to spend without him. He screams his cries into this desolate present that he cannot cling to. With every passing moment, he is so tempted to fade, to break the promise he’d made to Willem countless times; to leave because he’s not sure how to stay anymore. 

____


End file.
